Pakistan News
The Tale of Two Deserts
Paris (Imran Y. CHOUDHRY) :- Former Press Secretary to the President, Former Press Minister to the Embassy of Pakistan to France, Former MD, SRBC Mr. Qamar Bashir analysis : As a television news producer (1986-1991), I’ve covered my share of human tragedy, bureaucratic inertia, and moments of quiet hope. But few stories have stayed with me as powerfully as a journey through the deserts of Balochistan—where a tragic accident illuminated not just systemic neglect, but also the remarkable contrast between two deserts: one forsaken and fossilized in time, and the other transformed into a symbol of possibility through vision, science, and human resolve.
Our assignment began with a grim dispatch: a head-on collision between two passenger buses near Dalbandin, a remote town in southwestern Pakistan, roughly 400 kilometers from Quetta. Departing from the provincial capital at dusk, we drove through fading light and battered roads, arriving in Naushkey by midnight. At dawn, we resumed our journey. But as the sun rose, the road disappeared altogether—claimed by the vast, unmarked expanse of the Dasht-e-Margo, literally the “Desert of Death.” There was no map to follow, only hardened mud plains, windswept dunes, and the intuition of our local cameraman, who led us like a nomadic guide across the skeletal terrain.
By midday, we reached Dalbandin, where we were received in a modest roadside rest house by the local Assistant Commissioner. What awaited us was chilling. The two buses, barreling at speeds exceeding 100 kilometers per hour along an unmarked track, had collided head-on and burst into flames. There were no survivors—just twisted steel, scorched earth, and the acrid scent of human tragedy. It was a disaster shaped not only by fate but by decades of neglect. In a desert of over 347,000 square kilometers—larger than Germany—there were no roads, no signs, no protections. Just emptiness and vulnerability.
The Dasht-e-Margo is a desert etched into history. In 325 BCE, Alexander the Great lost thousands of his soldiers to thirst and exhaustion while attempting to cross this merciless landscape. More than two millennia later, its terrain remains untouched, unreclaimed, and largely uninhabited—where nomadic tribes still live as they did centuries ago, and modern development has yet to arrive. It is a land suspended between ancient endurance and modern abandonment.
Yet, halfway across Asia, I had once witnessed a desert of similar character—unforgiving and untamed—undergo a profound transformation. The Taklamakan Desert in China’s Xinjiang region, slightly smaller in size at 337,000 square kilometers, was once considered one of the most dangerous deserts in the world. Its very name means, “Go in, and you won’t come out.” Silk Road traders feared its shifting sands and sudden storms. For centuries, it remained a death zone for caravans and a barrier to settlement.
But in the past few decades, the Taklamakan has defied its ancient reputation. Since the 1980s, the Chinese government has undertaken one of the most ambitious ecological projects in human history: the creation of a “Green Wall” to contain the desert’s expansion and regenerate its periphery. Over 100 million drought-resistant trees—poplars, tamarisks, and desert willows—have been planted, stretching over 3,000 kilometers around the desert’s edge. Drip irrigation systems, soil stabilization techniques, and satellite-guided planting have reclaimed thousands of hectares of land. What satellite images once showed as a yellow void now reveals a ring of green steadily encroaching on the sands.
And beyond the ecological triumph lies a deeply human story: that of how Xinjiang’s local populations—Uyghurs, Kazakhs, and others—were turned from desert survivors into stakeholders of transformation. Former herders and subsistence farmers were trained as tree planters, irrigation workers, and forest guardians. More than 300,000 jobs have been created in Xinjiang’s forestry and agricultural sectors since 2010. Eco-compensation programs paid villagers to plant trees instead of overgrazing livestock, and fruit orchards—producing pomegranates, walnuts, and dates—have flourished where once there was only dust. This economic revitalization has drastically improved livelihoods and reduced the appeal of insurgent ideologies, replacing alienation with agency.
It is no coincidence that the Taklamakan’s transformation coincided with broader development in Xinjiang. Once plagued by separatist unrest and violence, Xinjiang has seen its GDP per capita rise from $3,000 in 2010 to over $8,000 in 2023. Poverty rates have fallen from over 30 percent to near zero. High-speed rail now links its cities to the rest of China. New industries—textiles, solar energy, food processing—have taken root, and tourism has emerged around the newly greened belts of desert. Terrorist incidents have dropped by over 90 percent in the last decade, not solely due to security measures, but because people were offered a stake in stability.
A key to this success lies in water. Like Balochistan, Xinjiang is bone-dry and vulnerable to drought. But China’s investment in water management has been transformative: the construction of reservoirs and canals, the deployment of solar-powered pumps, and the implementation of efficient drip irrigation. These systems were built not only by state planners but by local laborers, whose participation ensured sustainability. Ownership of forest zones was assigned to communities, linking environmental restoration with livelihood security.
The comparison between these two deserts—Balochistan’s Dasht-e-Margo and China’s Taklamakan—reveals the stark divergence between potential and action. It is not geography but governance that determines whether a desert remains a death zone or becomes a cradle of renewal. In Balochistan, where underground aquifers are vanishing and over 62 percent of the land is water-stressed, similar rehabilitation could be attempted. The ancient karez system, once used to irrigate Baloch settlements, could be revived and augmented with solar desalination technologies. And afforestation programs, modeled after Pakistan’s successful Billion Tree Tsunami in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, could stabilize soil and restore ecological balance.
What the Taklamakan has shown is that with vision, investment, and inclusion, even the harshest terrain can bloom. What is needed in Balochistan is not merely funding, but a shift in philosophy: from command to collaboration, from marginalization to empowerment.
The story of these two deserts is not just about climate or culture. It is a story about choices. One desert was seen as doomed, but was transformed by patience, science, and people. The other, still majestic and mysterious, waits under the sun for a similar awakening. Pakistan has the land, the talent, and the tools. What it needs is the will—the kind that sees deserts not as dead zones, but as frontiers of possibility.
If the sands of Taklamakan can host orchards, if once-forgotten plains can hum with new life, then surely the Dasht-e-Margo too can echo with the sounds of roads being paved, trees being planted, water flowing once more. The desert will always whisper to us. The question is—will we finally listen?
Pakistan News
Ambassador Mumtaz Zahra Baloch addressed the Association of Pakistani Francophone Professionals
Paris (Imran Y. CHOUDHRY):- Ambassador of Pakistan Madam Mumtaz Zahra Baloch addressed the Association of Pakistani Francophone Professionals at an event held at the Embassy of Pakistan in Paris, France.
Speaking on the occasion, the Ambassador outlined the multifaceted relations between Pakistan and France and the wider francophone world. She stated that while Governments create frameworks and agreements, it is the people professionals, academics, entrepreneurs, and civil society leaders, who give life to bilateral relationships between countries.
Ambassador appreciated the work of PPRF and its contribution in promoting professional networking and cultural exchanges between the Francophone Pakistanis and the French society and thus strengthening people-to-people links between Pakistan and France.
Pakistan News
FIA’s arbitrariness led to many people, including the son of the press attaché of the French Embassy in Islamabad, being offloaded.
Paris (Imran Y. CHOUDHRY );- Is there a law of the jungle in Pakistan? Is there no guardian for the people? Have FIA
FIA’s alleged arbitrariness at Islamabad Airport,
Many people including the French national son of the press attaché of the French Embassy in Islamabad were offloaded,
According to the details, FIA officials removed Muhammad Asghar Syed, a young man with dual citizenship (Pakistani and French), who is 28 years old, from the flight without any legal justification. His only “fault” was his “questionable age”, according to the officials, although all his travel and legal documents were complete and correct. The father of the young man who was offloaded is a press attaché at the French Embassy in Islamabad. The affected family says that the FIA
In addition, on December 25, 2025, the FIA
The affected families said that due to this irresponsible behavior, they had to face severe mental anguish while also suffering huge financial losses.
Many people have been offloaded before on various pretexts, many of whom were going for jobs or studies or for the tourism.
The head of a one family protested in strong words and said, “There is no guardian in this country, the law of the jungle is in force, no one is asking questions. FIA officials have obstructed our religious duty without authority and without law. And they let those who bribe them go.
The affected families have demanded that these incidents be investigated transparently, that the strictest action be taken against the responsible officials and that the financial and mental losses caused to the victims be compensated.
Pakistan News
Field Marshal’s Strategic Offer to the Muslim World
Paris (Imran Y. CHOUDHRY) :- Former Press Secretary to the President, Former Press Minister to the Embassy of Pakistan to France, Former MD, SRBC Mr. Qamar Bashir analysis : During his recent visit to Libya, Pakistan’s Field Marshal addressed a high-level gathering that included senior Libyan leaders and top military officials. What he presented was not a routine diplomatic message but a strategic doctrine shaped by Pakistan’s own experience of war, sanctions, and pressure. He reminded the audience that Pakistan learned long ago that depending on foreign military technology becomes dangerous when the nation faces existential threat. In moments of conflict, supplier nations often convert technology into leverage—delaying or freezing spare parts, blocking software updates, halting ammunition supply, or suspending technical support. When the survival of the nation hangs in the balance, such dependency can turn fatal. That is why Pakistan deliberately chose to minimize reliance on imported technology and began developing its own air defence systems, land warfare platforms, naval capabilities, cyber and electronic warfare tools, and—above all—independent and secure communication systems. This was a long and difficult journey, born not of luxury but of necessity.
The Field Marshal explained that this strategy was tested decisively during the twelve-day confrontation with India, when Pakistan’s integrated cyber, communications, missile defence and air combat systems were exposed to real battlefield stress. According to him, Pakistan did not lose a single aircraft, while neutralizing India’s most advanced platforms including Rafale, MiG-29 and Tejas fighters. Indian command-and-control networks were disrupted by cyber operations. Even India’s S-400 missile defence system failed to deliver the deterrence New Delhi expected. These developments, he said, proved that Pakistan had achieved technological parity—and even superiority in certain domains—despite facing a much larger and wealthier adversary.
But what turned his address into a historic moment was not the recounting of Pakistan’s battlefield resilience; it was the offer that followed. The Field Marshal declared that Pakistan is now ready to share its indigenous defence technologies with Muslim countries who seek strategic autonomy, self-respect, and credible deterrence. These technologies, already tested in war, will not be used as political leverage but as a means to strengthen the collective defence of the Muslim world. In his most emphatic words, he advised Muslim leaders: “Ensure your armed forces are strong enough to protect your sovereignty, your dignity, and your independence. Without that strength, no country can ever truly claim to be independent.”
This message reverberates far beyond South Asia. In the Middle East, nearly every state hosts U.S. military bases, finances their operations, and relies heavily on Western defence umbrellas. Yet recent conflicts—such as the Israel-Hamas war and the Israel-Iran escalation—revealed an uncomfortable truth. These military installations, systems and manpower were not mobilized to defend the host nations. Instead, they were activated primarily to shield Israel. The wealthy Gulf states therefore face a paradox: they pay for foreign troops on their soil, yet remain strategically exposed when their national interests diverge from those of Washington.
In this context, Pakistan’s offer becomes transformative. Saudi Arabia’s expanding defence partnership with Pakistan reflects a strategic awakening. A combination of Pakistani technology, combat experience, and human capital—supported by Middle Eastern financial strength—could reshape the regional security order. If replicated across other Muslim states, this framework could eliminate the perceived need to host foreign military bases as guardians of sovereignty. Equally important, jointly-developed or indigenous systems would remove the external leverage that often appears during crises: no blocked spare parts, no sudden software restrictions, no political strings attached at the moment of war.
It is inevitable that such a shift would alarm existing power centres. Israel would see any dilution of its technological edge as a direct challenge. The United States, Israel’s principal guarantor, would likely apply diplomatic and economic pressure to prevent Muslim states from seeking autonomous defence solutions. There will be narratives claiming Pakistan’s capabilities are exaggerated, or dismissing its industrial scale as inferior. Yet, as the Field Marshal implied, credibility is measured on the battlefield—not in marketing brochures. Pakistan’s systems have already faced real-world combat and performed under fire.
The argument also rests on a deeper reality: technology evolves fastest where capital and experience converge. With Gulf investment, Pakistan’s defence industries can rapidly innovate, expand and customize systems suited to regional threat environments. For Pakistan itself, the benefits would be equally meaningful. Defence exports would generate much-needed foreign exchange, strengthen geopolitical influence, and position Pakistan as a provider—not merely a consumer—of security within the Muslim world.
Still, the Field Marshal acknowledged that breaking existing dependencies will not be easy. Many Muslim states are deeply embedded in Western defence ecosystems, bound by treaties, procurement pipelines and political expectations. Escaping that orbit will take courage, foresight and coordination. But strategic independence begins with the first decisive step. Pakistan’s offer represents that moment.
From a broader perspective, this proposal could finally allow Muslim nations to stand on their own feet in matters of defence. It could create an ecosystem where capability replaces dependency, dignity replaces insecurity, and sovereignty becomes more than a symbolic word. Pakistan is not promising miracles. Rather, it is offering tested technology, operational knowledge, and a philosophy of self-reliance, backed by the lived experience of facing a larger, wealthier and well-equipped adversary—and surviving without external rescue.
Of course, powerful forces will resist this change. Israel and its allies will exert pressure. Some Muslim leaders will hesitate. There may be attempts at sabotage and diplomatic intimidation. But the Field Marshal’s words cut through the doubt: true independence is impossible without strong, sovereign, and self-reliant armed forces.
Pakistan’s outreach is therefore more than a defence export initiative. It is a strategic doctrine—one that seeks to align technology, sovereignty, and dignity across the Muslim world. If embraced, it could mark the beginning of a new era in which Muslim nations no longer rely on others to guarantee their security, nor fear political manipulation at the moment of crisis. The path ahead is difficult, but history has always favored nations that choose self-reliance over dependency, courage over caution, and dignity over fear. For the Muslim world, this may be the first genuine opportunity in generations to defend itself on its own terms—and to respond to aggression with confidence and capability rather than hesitation and dependence.
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